Hide and Snake Murder

by Jessie Chandler

  “Only recently, I accepted an adjunct teaching position in Mexican Studies at the University of Minnesota. I had worked my dual charade for too many years and helped to put hundreds of cartel members away. I had finally done enough. I wanted to come home.”

  I retrieved another tipple. “I’d say you’ve done enough.” My lips were going pleasantly numb.

  “Yes.” Luz nodded. “Operation White Stag was going to be my coup de grâce, and once it was over, Zorra would disappear as quickly as she’d risen. The Columbia Arena bloodbath was the result of a many months of multi-jurisdictional collaboration directed, in part, by me on the cartel side and by one of the top agents in ICE. The op took agents from many places, including Mike Farroway’s office.”

  The light bulb flicked on. Farroway’s bristly red hair flashed in my mind. Why hadn’t this clicked sooner? I didn’t want to know but was compelled to ask. “Was he in Fletcher Sharpe’s desk?”

  JT nodded, her face grave. “Yes. Apparently after you talked to him, he decided to do some investigation on his own. He was in over his head before he even had a chance to react. Everyone else was wrapped up in Operation White Stag.”

  I felt terrible. If we hadn’t dragged him into this, he’d still be alive. Based on the crestfallen look on both their faces, Coop, and Baz, to his credit, felt the same.

  Luz spoke again. “When I met with you and Nick on campus, I had no idea you were the ones causing Tomás so much grief. I was shocked when you and Nick were dragged into Sharpe’s manufacturing plant bound and bloodied.”

  Kate eyed me and mouthed, “Nick?”

  I raised both brows and shook my head.

  “Shay,” Luz said, her tone sincere, “I’m so sorry I had to threaten you with my weapon. And you,” she bobbed her head at Baz, “as well. But I could do nothing to alert Tomás or any of the other cartel leaders that something was very wrong. Every second I was trying to figure out how to get all of you out of there.”

  Coop asked, “When we saw you at the warehouse and later at the ice arena, your appearance was altered?”

  “Yes,” Luz acknowledged. “I changed both my clothes and my face through prosthetics and contact lenses. It’s subtle, but enough of a difference to make it work.”

  I said, “So when Kelvin Mudd and Tomás confronted us behind the rink, they were addressing Zorra, not Luz. Your invented identity remained intact.”

  Luz said, “Yes, it did. That’s thanks to you. Then Tomás shot me.”

  I shuddered at Luz’s words, my brain flashing back to the moment I saw the fire explode from the end of Tomás’s pistol. I quickly slugged down the last of my third—or was it my fourth?—cup of sangria and refilled. The pitcher was almost empty.

  Luz sighed. “Word was leaked that Zorra had been killed, which wasn’t true, along with other cartel leaders. Also killed was Lieutenant Pomerantz, the corrupt missing-persons head from New Orleans. Another eight were wounded in the firefight. Hunk and Donny were arrested, uninjured, after they were pulled from beneath a set of bleachers where they hid like the cowards they are. Three escaped and are now on the FBI’s most wanted list.”

  JT squeezed my hand and said, “I have a question I wasn’t able to get a full answer to.”

  Luz’s nearly perfectly arched eyebrow arched higher.

  “How exactly did Kelvin Mudd fit into this?”

  “He was Sharpe’s director of product development and the main man who coordinated the shipments of drugs from Mexico. He ran the goods through Hunk and Donny, who in turn used an unofficial gang of underage kids, of all people, as drug runners. The runners converted the drugs to cash, received a cut, and gave the rest of the money back. Hunk and Donny then kept their own cut and handed the remainder over to Kelvin Mudd. Mudd also kept a portion and devised a way to stuff toy animals full of cash. Then he shipped them back to Mexico as an export. An associate of the Reynosa Cartel picked up the toys once delivery had been made to Sharpe’s manufacturing plant located outside of Juárez, Mexico.”

  “Wow,” Coop said. “That’s seriously complicated.”

  My brain felt woozy.

  Luz’s mother picked that moment to check on us. “You must stay for a late lunch,” she declared as she cleared away the cups and now-empty sangria pitcher. “It will be ready in twenty minutes.” She issued the mandate and exited without waiting for a response.

  Kate’s eyes opened wide. “She doesn’t take no for an answer, does she?”

  Luz smiled. “No. She doesn’t.”

  Coop said, “What kind of food does she cook that a vegetarian can eat?”

  Luz appraised him with hot eyes for a moment. “We’ll find something to fill you up.”

  Whoa. Sparks were flying.

  A dimple in Coop’s cheek deepened, but he didn’t respond.

  JT said, “I heard through the rumor mill that Mudd sang like a lark and implicated Hunk and Donny, who then ratted out their underage runners. It’s going to be a major shift in drug dealing here in the Cities. Thanks directly to you, Luz.”

  Luz gracefully accepted the comment. “Thank you, JT. And I hope you’re aware what an amazing individual Shay is. She has a sense of honor and decency you don’t see often any more. And these friends of yours … ” she waved her hand at us, “are true and good.”

  JT looked at me, her eyes full of warmth. “Yes, I certainly know just how special Shay is. And the rest of these yahoos aren’t half-bad either.”

  Kate asked, “Luz, what will you do now?”

  Luz gazed out the window for a moment. “My mother will stay here. It’s safe enough. We have guards patrolling the fence-line and good security. I may leave for Europe or Australia for a while and return when this has blown over and something else has caught the attention of the media. I’ll have to give up my teaching position, but that’s a small sacrifice to be alive.” Luz’s eyes bore into Coop when she added, “But I’ll definitely be back.”

  Coop returned her gaze with an alarming intensity. “You look me up, okay?”

  Oh jeez. We could light a lamp with the voltage that zinged between the two of them.

  “I absolutely will.”

  A motion caught my eye, and I turned a little too fast. My head stopped but my brain kept going. Baz had something in his hand, and he was nervously playing with it. I squinted. “Baz, what is that?”

  Baz looked at his hands as if he’d just realized there was something in them. “Oh, nothing.” He tried to stuff the object into his pocket.

  “Baz.” The warning in my tone was clear. “What is it?”

  He met my gaze and held the item out. It was a Star Wars figurine of Darth Vader. I turned it over a couple of times and gave it back. Something niggled, foggy, in the back of my mind, made worse by the strange look on his face. I said suspiciously, “Where’d you get that?”

  He didn’t answer but did have the grace to look guilty.

  “Baz.” I gave him the evil eye as I recalled where I’d last seen figurines like those: in the business office of the Hands On Toy Company. After all this, the little bastard had taken something else. Was he nuts?

  My sloshed innards started to quiver. “Did you swipe it?”

  “I’d never do that.” Baz attempted to look insulted.

  “Bullshit!” I exploded. “You’ve been doing it your whole life. And look what it’s gotten all of us into, you moron.” My fingers dug into the cushion beneath me. I shifted my weight forward. I couldn’t believe after all we’d been though, he would do it again. Stupid thinking on my part. Okay, tipsy thinking.

  He scowled and then flipped me the bird. “Shay, kiss my ass.”

  If I had taken a moment to think about it, I’d have been surprised Baz actually had the balls to say those words to me. Instead, I lost it and lunged, intent on wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing until he turned blue.

  JT brought me up short with a fist twisted in the back of my shirt. She either had fast reflexes or had suspected I might lose
my cool, considering the source of my ire.

  Baz cringed, and held a hand out toward me, palm up. “I don’t know what happened. I—it—I found it in my pocket.”

  The Star Wars Incident broke up the meeting, and JT thought I needed some air. I think she figured if she could keep us separated, there would be no bloodshed in the Ortez household today.

  Fresh, cool air cleared my brain to some degree. JT and I strolled in silence behind the ranch house, past the barn and a fenced pasture where three horses grazed. My blood pressure slowly returned to normal.

  The two other outbuildings were a storage shed and a workshop where Mr. Ortez made his furniture. I knew this because the words carved in a wood sign above the door read ORTEZ FINE FURNITURE.

  “I wonder where Luz’s dad is,” I said.

  JT navigated a muddy area of the path we followed. “He died of a massive heart attack eight months ago.”

  “Oh.” Ouch. I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jeans. It made it all that much more important Luz was alive. Her poor mother.

  “How do you know so much about all of this?”

  JT grabbed my belt loop. She said, “It helps to know certain people, and dropping a name from my new FBI contacts didn’t hurt either.”

  “You work fast.”

  The path petered out and turned into a deer trail that cut through the woods behind the house. Birds that were either too stupid to leave the state for the winter or who had recently returned chirped overhead. The air lacked the city pollution factor I was used to, and it plain felt good to breathe.

  It was far too easy to fall into a comfort zone and not pay attention to the larger issues in the world. These last few days were a testament to that fact. I reached for JT’s hand and laced my fingers through hers.

  After a few hundred feet, the trail opened to a small meadow that was a little larger than the size of a running track. It would make a perfect escape in the summer.

  I was feeling better, less woozy, and I didn’t think I was on the verge of murder anymore. “Thanks for having my back in there. I had a bit too much sangria, and … Thanks.”

  “You’ve had a hell of a time. Makes sense you might struggle.”

  We came to a stop near the center of the meadow. I pulled JT into my arms. “Thanks for being you.”

  She kissed the tip of my nose. “Anytime. Thanks for not getting killed.”

  I grinned. “Welcome.”

  “Mike Farroway’s dog—”

  “Bogey,” I supplied. “He was a nice mutt. Flunky Bloodhound, Mike said. I’m sorry he won’t have Mike anymore.” I felt the mist of guilt begin to descend and fought to keep it at bay. My head knew I wasn’t responsible for what happened to Farroway. He was doing his job. But my heart and my gut felt quite differently. One day, I was going to have to dissect that situation and come to terms with it.

  JT leaned her forehead against mine. “I’m going to take him for a while. At least until they figure out what to do with him.”

  Her eyes were beautiful. And right now they were the warm mahogany I loved. Her dark hair was loose and cascaded around her shoulders. I tucked a wayward strand behind her ear. “You have a good heart.”

  “I try.” She stepped away, grabbed my hand, and we continued our circuit around the meadow. “There’s something I want to ask you.” Her tone belied nervousness.

  She was intently studying the ground we were traversing.

  I eyed her. “Spit it out.”

  “I don’t want to scare you—”

  “JT! What?” Where was my woman’s usually glib tongue? I was the one who had a hard time with the L word, the one who was used to lovin’ ’em and leavin’ ’em. Was she about to cut me loose? I stopped dead in my tracks, heart in my throat. JT still held my hand, and when I stopped, the momentum swung her around to face me.

  My eyes widened in alarm. “What?”

  In a blink, JT processed the emotions pouring off me. She stepped into my space, cupped my face with her hands and held my head still. “Shay, it’s okay.” Her eyes pierced my heart, her voice hoarse with emotion. “I was going to ask you if you might be interested in staying at my place.”

  “Well, yeah, tonight I planned—”

  “No.”

  I snapped my mouth shut.

  “Staying permanently. As in living there.”

  I released the breath I’d been holding in a whoosh and slapped a hand to my chest. “Perm—oh my god, I thought you were going to dump me. You about gave me a stroke.”

  “Oh, Shay, no. I’m so sorry. No.” JT pulled me tight against her.

  It felt like my heart might leap through my skin. I whispered into her neck, “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Not my intent.” Then she pushed me to arm’s length. “I figured since we spend most of the time there anyway, and your place is so small, and Dawg would have a playmate, and Rocky could move into your apartment—” I silenced her with my mouth.

  When we broke apart, I wasn’t the only one sucking air.

  “I don’t know.” I took a deep breath. “I’m barely used to the idea of telling you I love you. Moving in together is huge.”

  I adored that forlorn look JT got whenever she was within reach of what she really wanted but something blocked her from getting it. She was usually pretty sneaky about finding a way around the problem. Probably why she was such a good cop.

  “Will you think about it?”

  “Yes.” I pulled her in for another smooch.

  She braced a hand on my chest and dodged my lips. “Is that ‘yes, you will move in with me’ or ‘yes, you’ll think about it’?”

  I squinted at her, a million thoughts charging through my mind. I’d leaped that humdinger ‘love’ hurdle just to be taken aback by the prospect of domestic bliss in one abode. With two dogs. I always believed that kind of life wasn’t for me. My white picket fence dreams flew out the window the first time I kissed a girl. Lately, defining moments kept blasting at me like hundred-mile-an-hour straight-line winds. Maybe the time had come to go with the flow. Live in the moment, Shay.

  “Okay. I can’t believe I’m gonna say this. I’ll move in with you.”

  We sealed the deal with lengthy lip lock.

  Life. It’s a crazy, precious thing. You never know what’s going to come hurtling your way. But damn, it’s good to be alive to see what happens next.

  THE END

  April McGuire, Back Porch Studio

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jessie Chandler is the vice president of the Twin Cities chapter of Sisters in Crime and a member of Mystery Writers of America. In her spare time, Chandler sells unique, artsy T-shirts and other assorted trinkets to unsuspecting conference and festival goers. She is a former police officer and resides in Minneapolis. Visit her online at JessieChandler.com.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  About the Author

 

 

 
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